


A treacherous thing

by PinkOrchid



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: First Time, Implied Slash, M/M, Pre-Slash, cat!john, rinch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3423974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkOrchid/pseuds/PinkOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things came to a head one quiet morning in the library. And as sometimes happens, it was a song that did it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A treacherous thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fanfic, not beta'd as I don't know anyone else on here, so comments and criticisms are welcome. No trigger warnings that I can see, and though it's pretty much gen in nature, I gave it a mature warning just in case, for implied/imminent slash (Rinch because that's how I ship). This piece of whimsy came to mind when I heard The Cure's song Love Cats on the radio on the way to work one day. Not meant to be taken terribly seriously, unlikely and Out Of Character, but the idea caught my fancy. I just love the idea of Reese as a big slinky-sleek-seductive panther (who happily makes like like a fluffy kitty for Finch!) 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the settings from the show or the song from the Cure mentioned in the fic. I don't profit from any of them either.
> 
> Note: I've just updated formatting thanks to some great advice in comments section - thanks guys!

#### "We move like cagey tigers / we couldn't get closer than this" 

Things came to a head one quiet morning in the library. And as sometimes happens, it was a song that did it. 

Finch and Reese were waiting for another number, calmness descending with the repetition of now-familiar routines. Reese was wedged into an armchair that looked too small for his long frame, pretending to leaf through a book while secretly eyeing Finch from under even longer eyelashes. Of course John knew he didn’t have to be here, Finch would call him if something came up. But somehow, he always ended up in the library, even when there was nothing in particular that required his presence. And Finch had stopped calling him on it. Apart from rare days when Finch was especially tired, in pain or worried, he now forbore from pointing out how unnecessary it was for Reese to, as he put it, 'dally'. Just as well, Reese thought, since for a long time now, this place has felt like the closest thing he has to ‘home’. At that thought, he stretched his long legs luxuriously, enjoying the sensuous curl of his toes inside his (expensive, Finch-bought) shoes, and turned a page.

Finch was standing at the board rearranging the photos from their most recent case, filing them away, wrapping things up and generally pottering about in his typically Finch-like way. He seemed, if not happy, then nicely at peace. All was well. Reese relaxed some more. This was good. Finch was safe. This was home. Standing there, Finch could almost feel the same gentle stillness settle softly on him. He let out a breath and allowed himself to relax a little more, shuffled the photos in his hands just for something to do. He was not quite watching the handsome man sitting silently off to the left, but was conscious of him nonetheless. Indeed, Reese was a man you couldn’t easily ignore, stretched out and taking up what seemed a huge amount of space in the room. 

Finch sometimes thought that Reese was a contradiction, a sum of parts he couldn’t quite reconcile. There were times, like now, when he seemed larger than life, solidly real and bending the light of the room around him. Yet at other times, he had seen his supremely physical mass melt into nothing, fall out of focus and disappear in plain sight. It was one of Reese’s special kinds of magic. And Finch could never quite figure out how what sleight of hand made it so. 

Finch turned a little, whole body moving to compensate for his unyielding neck, pretending to study one of the pages still stuck up on the board, so that he could see the younger man more clearly. Finch was not a man to indulge himself lightly, yet today, for a moment, he let himself appreciate how the thin light slanting into the dusty room made a halo of John’s gun-metal hair. Somehow this familiar domesticity, the peace stretching out between them, should be out of place, should bother him more. But it didn’t. And if he was being honest, it hadn’t for quite some time..

####  "All these years and no one heard" 

In the background, a radio was softly playing. Reese had appropriated the battered piece of equipment goodness knew where, one cold winter's afternoon. We need a bit of noise in here Finch, he had said, in his husky not-whisper, something to connect us to the world. Finch had harrumphed most impressively, and had studiously ignored the metal box for three long weeks, and John had been the one to turn it on occasionally. However, Harold had recently begun to leave it on now and then, in the nothing-days, when there was no number and nothing important to be saying or doing. It had become part of the background noise of their days-in-between. It seemed to John that his employer chose stations at random, for no reason that John was able to discern. Sometimes it was classical, all gentle cadences and shivering strings. Other times it would be pop, jazz or rock - or on one memorable and very rainy day, country and western, of which John was not especially a fan. Today was easy listening from the 70's and 80's, reminding John of school dances and car trips with his parents that had seemed to never end. 

As one song he hadn’t particularly been paying attention to faded out, the familiar strains of Love Cats began to play. John liked this song, it had a lively, easy beat that stirred him, made him want to dance, frenzied and with abandon. He thought with a sense of yearning that he hadn’t danced like that in a very long time. He wondered idly if Finch had been fond of dancing in his pre-accident days. He wondered if Finch missed it too. 

Without warning, Finch let out a huff of something that if you didn't know him would have sounded like a small, reluctant laugh. John looked up, slightly startled. Had Finch just chuckled? To himself? Sure, Finch would mutter to himself sometimes, whether Reese was in the room or just at the other end of the phone line, incomprehensible half words of code-talk, commentary on the latest number, sometimes digressing into poetry or philosophy, and even occasionally breaking into a hum. But laughter of any kind was rare. 

The sharp movement of John’s head lifting from the book he was pretending to read caught Finch’s attention, his gaze frank and questioning.  
"Something funny Finch?" he asked, deadpan and dry. 

"Nothing, John, nothing of consequence." Finch shrugged, or as much as he was able, given the fused vertebrae of his spine.

John just quirked an eyebrow, in that snarky way he had, and kept Finch firmly in his sights, not backing down. Waiting. Finch sighed. He wasn't sure why he answered then, perhaps it was down to the sense of peace and companionship that permeated the scene. Perhaps he was just feeling reckless having eaten two whole pastries with his tea that morning. Yes, that was it, blame it on the sugar rush, he thought. Or perhaps it was the reckless, frenzied energy of the song that pushed the words out of him, uncensored. 

"Well" - he started, haltingly - "it's this song. I was just thinking that it reminds me of you." 

Reese's entire body stilled, like a blurry image coming into quiet focus. He stared. He was not sure what he expected, but it wasn't this. 

"Excuse me?" 

Finch blushed. 

"Sometimes I think that you are ... well, a bit like a cat" he said, with that 'don't ask' expression on his face, the one that drove John wild to ask and ask and ask. 

John couldn't stop the grin from breaking free, even though he tried to hide it with a half-curled hand in front of his lips. 

"A tom cat?" - teasingly, eyes dancing. 

Finch rolled his eyes. 

"No-oh. Though you are a little unkempt today, I notice you haven't shaved since Tuesday" – said Finch, a little huffy, thinking: yes, deflection, that might work. 

It didn't. The eyes kept dancing, demanding an explanation. The delicious light in them caught Finch firmly in its fist, then squeezed. Playing for time, Finch shuffle-walked the short distance to his desk, put the papers down, turned slowly and leaned against the solid reassurance of the workstation.

"Oh for goodness sake" he huffed. "Alright then, I evidently meant a larger specimen than an alley stray. In truth you remind me of a much bigger cat, a leopard or a tiger. Something… sleek and feline and, ahh, coiled." 

"Coiled, Finch?" 

"Yes. I’m referring to the way you _move_ , Mr Reese." 

‘Mr Reese’ said nothing, just continued staring, letting the tension build to unbearable heights. They had trained him for this. He could wait all day if needs be.  


Finch couldn’t understand why his mouth just kept on wanting to move. Against every instinct for self-preservation, but with an air of nonchalance, as if he were casually commenting on something innocuous like the weather perhaps, Finch continued.

"You move as if fueled by a barely held-back fury that seems, you know, just a little bit wild, in the way that all cats are still a little wild, at heart." 

Finch almost made it sound _logical_. That it made perfect sense to think of one’s employee, colleague, as a wild and frankly sensuous animal. Perfect. Sense. Finch stopped there and with a sense of finality busied himself with the papers again, thinking, I have said quite enough now thank you. 

#### "It's a treacherous thing"

John almost forgot to breathe. Was this real? Did he dare answer? To act on this small opening in the armor that surrounded his enigmatic boss – well, it could ruin everything. Yet, what Finch had said was so completely unexpected. It could mean everything, or nothing. But - how could he not take that enticing lead and .. run with it. See where it went. For all his many faults in understanding, John had never lacked in courage. He felt his pulse speed up, delightful anticipation coursing through him, proving himself exactly the kind of predator Finch believed him to be. 

The ex-operative rose from his armchair in a blur of movement, all fluid grace and sinuous strength. He slowly, deliberately, padded the short distance from chair to desk, keeping his prey in his sights all the while. He barely refrained from licking his lips. If he had been a cat, his tail would already be low to the ground and twitching. Before him he noticed Harold blanch, a look almost of fear flitting across his face before he got it rigidly under control. Well, Finch was a little bird after all, being stalked by a rather big and definitely, obscenely, smiling cat. 

Harold gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing just at the edge of his starched shirt collar as John crowded him up against his desk, leaning in, planting one solid hand either side of Harold's narrow hips. He was so big. Harold was feeling distinctly nervous. And, he realized with dismay, the way that this strong, lean, entirely too seductive man had him pinned in place was having a rather _undesired effect in the trouser department_. Any closer and.. well any second now, John was going to notice, for sure! 

"And if I were a cat, Harold?" - a whisper, almost a purr - "what do you think I would do, hmm?" 

Harold let out a strangled little sound that could, if you were being ungenerous, have been called a _squeak_. John’s heart beat faster at the thought of what that unconscious little noise might mean. He was enjoying this possibly a little too much, as his lips coiled even further into his most dangerous kind of smile. Harold knew this smile, as he knew and had cataloged all John's smiles. This one meant only one thing. Trouble! Fearing he was about to be punished, fearing he had given too much away, his heart sank. Move Harold, move, he thought, or at least you need to say something! 

"Really Mr Reese, I hardly think"- Finch gulped out, only to be cut off mid protest.

"Let me answer that, _Harold_ \- he rolled the name on his tongue, tasting the solid weight of it, his anchor in an uncertain world. "I would _mark_ you of course." 

Harold's drew a sharp breath, a sudden gasp on the intake of air. Yes, thought Reese, that got you, didn't it. You weren't expecting that. The thought somehow warmed him, gave him courage to proceed. And there – yes – behind the fear – was that a flash of desire he read in Harold’s wide-open eyes? Hope blossomed, unbidden. Yes, John thought. Yes. Ever so slowly, hesitantly, tensed for retreat, John brought his chin towards his employer's shoulder, started to nudge carefully across the surface of his smartly buttoned vest with his mouth, the side of his cheek, moving slowly up towards the place Finch’s shoulder joined his neck. Strictly speaking, you could say John nuzzled. Except ex-CIA trained operatives .. well they never nuzzled.. Did they?

"Did you know cats have scent glands in their chins, foreheads, cheeks, Finch? They rub themselves against things. It's how they claim what's… _theirs_.." 

John's voice dips lower on this last word, shooting straight to Harold’s ‘trouser department’, making the problem that much worse. John's voice is soft-and-rough at the same time, seductive, intimate, and eminently feline, curling around Finch's head like a beautifully sleek tail around an owner’s leg. Harold can't think beyond a single rush of, close, he is standing so close. He is _touching me_. Oh _God_.

Slowly, slowly, and oh so sensuously, John continues his slow circling, rubbing his chin gently over his employer's left cheek, stubble sliding with just a hint of delicious roughness, moving over his left ear, running a slow trail back down his neck and pausing at the shoulder again. He is pretty sure Finch has now stopped breathing altogether. He is not sure if this is a good sign or not. But he isn’t about to stop. Not for anything. 

#### "We should have each other with cream" 

With breath-taking grace Reese slid to his knees in front of the man who was his whole world, the one person he had to care for, to count on. This had to work. He'd gone too far now to retreat again, hide behind a witty remark and laugh it off. No, once you commit, you follow through - it was the same rule in combat as in .. what was this? Romance? Love? A feeling with no name. Dangerous. Deep. 

"I would mark you Finch, all over, with my scent. Make you _mine_." There, the proverbial cat was out of the bag now. No taking it back. Finally. He felt a curious mix of relief and fear. 

John nuzzled once more into Harold's flank, careful to choose his good side, waiting, seeking permission, rejection, anything, to let him know how to proceed. He felt naked, stripped down. In his head he could hear nothing save a litany of 'please-please-please-please-please'. He shivered. Dared to nuzzle sideways, towards center, lifting such beautiful eyes up underneath dark lashes, seductive, in silent prayer. Half supplication, half imperious demand like the wild old cat he was. Little bird, he thought. _Please_. 

Harold gulped again. He felt alternate waves of panic and desire crashing through him. John was too close, John was… he was right there. And suddenly that giant brain of his unfroze, and a sure and certain logic kicked in. Oh. He was there, wasn’t he? He was asking. He .. he must know. He must _want_ this. A sweet tsunami of relief washed from his head to his toes. John – John wanted him. It was almost too much to comprehend, too dangerous, too much. And yet, too delicious to refuse. 

#### "The grooviest thing"

Better judgement yielded suddenly but completely, to impulse. Harold felt weak with the wanting of this, helpless in the face of the shining devotion he read in John’s eyes. Slowly, tentatively, almost reluctantly, he moved his hand to John’s face, traced the stubble on his cheek with one trembling thumb, then reached behind his ear and oh-so-gently, not entirely convinced he wouldn’t lose a finger for his temerity, started to scratch. 

"Nice kitty" – he murmured softly, almost shyly. And in those words there was a half-formed question. Harold pulled back the curtain. He allowed his uncertainty to show. 

John literally purred his reply. He extended his head to one side, encouraging the hand to linger, to inch towards his neck, before butting Harold’s side with his forehead. Yes, he answered, silently. Yes. I am yours. You are mine. I will be your tiger, your love cat, your grooviest thing. I will walk beside you. I will protect you in the dark places where we walk together alone. Above him, Harold let out the breath he had not realized he was holding. He was trembling with awe at the thought that this pretty wild thing had chosen him. HIM. His heart took off then, at a furious tempo, as his fingers began to stroke in earnest, earning him a satisfied growl. 

And in the background, the song slid onwards to its resolution. As did they. 

Fin


End file.
